


Obsession Conflicting

by Broba



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Other, Religious Conflict, Religious Content, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-22
Updated: 2012-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-31 14:38:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Broba/pseuds/Broba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ahhh-h-h-h yes, I remember this one. A prompt based on the tensions within a certain scene in Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Naturally I decided to ignore the film and examine Notre Dame de Paris, by Victor Hugo. I wanted to reach for something a little further, I thing just to see what would happen.</p><p>A dark night for me, a dark night of the sould. I took on this prompt, I'm not really sure why- something about it spoke to me. I am pleased how it came out, yes, and I got a little feedback on it. I was requested to do more, but I don't know if I have it in me. It took me to a dark place, enbodying these characters, and though writing is always an enriching experience it's not always a fun one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obsession Conflicting

In the great square before the cathedral people were gathered to trade and play and hear the haranguing of prophets and madmen that would always cry out to those who would listen and throw a coin or two. The tiled thoroughfare echoes to the clatter of horses and the raised voices of a faceless thronging multitude.  
  
The noise of the clamour was blanketed by the thick walls of the cathedral, draperies of stone hung from it's ancient bones. Within their enfolding space was the calm reflective quiet of the contemplative life of the spiritual no matter how boisterous the melange of humanity outside became. The only sounds were the flapping sandals of visiting Dominicans and the stately murmur of prayer. The air was still and redolent with incense which was burned daily at the mass in a gigantic censer that pendulumned from the very peak of the nave. The great bells would soon ring the compline and the day was coming to a well-ordered close.  
  
To the rear of the cathedral were the offices of the church and the cells of the holy who took residence there while studying the unique collection of texts in the cathedral library. High up above them the office of the Archdeacon, Grand Haut-Sang de Paris. Within that dreary chamber lacking any light save a score of candles in one corner and a dim miserable window, the Highblood himself sat at his desk dictating a letter to a monk functionary. As he spoke he moved constantly. He would re-arrange letters on his desk, open correspondence and read through a hundred notices, open and close books, remove his gloves to examine his fingertips and then pull the gloves back on again taking care to button them snugly. He would toy with the wooden crucifix he always kept on his desk, turning it around and around in his hands and gazing upon the image of the Christ.  
  
"Given the attitudes of the common man toward the benevolent hand of the church in this manner it is the opinion of this office that, should the case arise, we would offer alms of five sous per supplicant to a maximum value of no more than-" he paused. The Highblood held up the crucifix to catch the last dying of the sunlight, examining some minute feature of the exquisite carving. The monk waited patiently, quill hovering over parchment. Time seemed to hover patiently, waiting upon the great man to speak again.  
"Three hundred sous," he said finally, "disbursement to be made from the general coffers by order, et cetera et cetera."  
  
He waited for the monk to finish scribbling before holding a hand out, beckoning impatiently. The monk passed him the parchment which he signed with a flourish and folded over carefully. He opened a rosewood box from which he removed a red wax rod that he held in the flame of a candle briefly, before pressing it down on the fold of the parchment and adding his personal signet. He passed it back to the monk who took hold of the thick square of parchment, but the Highblood held on and met his eyes sternly.  
"Delivery before tomorrow's first light, am I understood?"  
"Yes, your eminence."  
"I do not expect a reply to this missive, only compliance. Do not wait before returning."  
"Yes, your eminence."  
The Highblood leaned back in his severe wooden chair and waved at the monk to leave and be about his orders, which the man gratefully did.  
  
When he was alone, the Highblood took up his crucifix and brought it to his lips once, before laying it down before him and clasping his hands together to offer a prayer. The people of Paris were turning away from him, the public opinion was darkening. Even the mother church had to pay some heed to the baying of the crowd. They thought he was aloof and detached, or worse that he was hiding some wickedness from public sight. Some openly denounced him as an alchemist or even in the most scandalous of rumours a secret Catharist, the son of  heretics who had escaped the inquisitions in Lombardy and Italy. Mere words, but he would have preferred to bathe in the light of love then to illuminate his path with the candle fires of fear. He was now reduced to buying their acceptance with hand-outs and indulgences that only made him despise them more, and in turn stoked their simmering displeasure with him. An Archdeacon who could not command the absolute obedience of his flock would not long look well in the eyes of Rome.  
  
He composed his prayer well in the style that he had been schooled, and mentally concentrated, fixating on his adoration of the Christ and humbly offering his plaint up to the heavens.  
"Jesu domine mundi, merciful Jesus in heaven," he began, in the same tone as he had read out his letter. He dictated his prayer and afterwards kissed the crucifix again.  
The Highblood always kept a jug of water close to hand that he would drink of during the day, it was lightly salted so as not to let him take too much pleasure from the refreshment. He drank a cupful and tried to concentrate on his work. It was difficult, above the crowd. He knew that the room was utterly silent, and yet he knew also that in some subtle manner he could perceive the seething roar of the crowd, like a hissing and retreating surf ever wearing at the periphery of his hearing. When he was among the faithful they were always around the edges of his sight, wicked faces and accusing eyes not quite in view. When he was alone they called out his name and demanded he appear before them. When he laid down to sleep they were waiting in the shadows to reach out and take up his body. They wanted to break him on the pillory before the cathedral- his cathedral- and only constant vigilance, faith and surrender to the omnipotent power of the Lord in all things preserved him. The Highblood knew these things with a rigid certainty just as well as he knew he would never discuss them with a living soul.  
  
He stood and went to the door, leaning out and attracting the attention of a passing novice by gripping him by the shoulder and propelling him firmly into the room. The boy looked terrified and as well he might, the Highblood loomed over him physically and spiritually. In the miasmal dark of the Highblood's chamber, where the light was now so dim that they were nothing more then black silhouettes limned in gold candlelight, he was a terror.  
"Novice, have you been out into the square this day?"  
"Yes, your eminence, at noon-bell to take in the faithful."  
"Were the hawkers and criers at large to-day?"  
"Yes, your eminence, as always they are."  
"And was he out there too?"  
The novice paled. It was the most grave taboo to mention the name of this one person within the boundaries of the Highblood's power. A novice might mention him and be stuck out instantly, forbidden to return.  
"I do not believe I know, your eminence."  
"Do not lie to me boy! If you are so transparent to my mortal eyes think on how well the Lord sees your every transgression!"  
"I swear, your eminence, I cannot be certain!"  
"Might he have been there to-day?"  
"He might, your eminence."  
"And might you have heard him speak on his normal litany of lies to-day?"  
"I might have caught a snatch of if on the wind, your eminence, but no more!"  
"Begone!" He dismissed the boy, who bowed gratefully and departed, and the Highblood closed and fastened the door after him.  
  
By now the room was almost pitch. The candles were guttering and weak, their light was brownish and insufficient, but he did not care. He pulled open his gown and shirt, and ran the tips of his fingers over the concertinaed ridges of scars that neatly lined his ribs. He would press and touch them when he was feeling weak or unclean. He would re-cut them and bleed himself to bring a sense of euphoric purity which he truly believed was the Lord's gift to his flesh. He was calling out to the crowds, and they would have gathered around him to listen. Oh yes, the novice had not dared to say so, but the Highblood could see it clearly. The church had taken away his name and his status in society, and if he would not be silent then the church would take away his life and commit further judgement to the Lord.  
  
The Highblood stood facing the lone window, looking up and out into the darkening Parisian night. No one knew where he- that one, that young man, the one who went unnamed- went to at night. If he had an inkling, the Highblood would surely have sent men for him. Even so, it was not the case that he was powerless to pluck this thorn from his side, the Highblood could have issued a statement to the effect that the cathedral would not tolerate the proselytising of heresies before the house of God. Alternately, he could have had the man- that man, he- arrested and put to the question. He could insist on the rack or pillory, and none would dare gainsay him. The Highblood could picture the scene clearly, the body broken and stretched out, the marks of the lash and the inquisitor's needle. The cuts, the bruises. The blank-faced inquisitors reading off a litany of charges and demanding answers, offering more pain. He could hear the sounds of sobbing. Then, the Highblood heard the crowd again, calling out for him, demanding he be put to their justice. He realised that he himself was the one in tears, and stared down aghast at his gloves where tear drops picked up flecks of candlelight and spat them back in his blurring eyes.  
  
God was testing him. God had sent this wanton boy-devil to curse him and lash him. The Highblood was scourged by the almighty and he could not bear it. He collapsed to his knees and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until vivid red and green fireworks exploded across his vision. If he blinded himself then he would still hear them, if he drove pins into his ears then he would still know of them, and if he struck off his own head he would find them waiting for him arrayed around the pit of damnation set aside for him- the crowd always calling, always reaching out for him. Now, every member of the mob had a face and every face was the same. He was everywhere and he would never stop, the Highblood knew that now. The purifying flames of the Lord were on him and though his skin crisp and his veins boil he would lose only the wickedness of putrescent flesh to that purgatory and he welcomed it. Punishment would lead ultimately to repentance and redemption, it was only the cold nothing of oblivion beyond any hope that could inspire terror in him. His hands played over his bare chest, tormenting his scars and pulling out blood. He ached for the pain and only when his hands were run over with it did he feel some small semblance of calm; he felt clean.  
  
He was good and pure, he knew this with a certainty and exactitude. He was the Highblood and an exemplar of all that the mother church preached. He was a scion of the church militant, a paragon of the church triumphant. Below him, a span of paces below him in space and an infinity beneath him in the eyes of the Lord Jesus Christ was this nameless nothing, a speck of black shadow on a perfect day. Yet the crowd loved their heretic and despised their Highblood. What bright goodness did they perceive in the wicked heart of the heretic, and what foul infection did they sense within him, reeking from him like an overpowering stench despite all he did. The Highblood moaned in despair and threw himself across the room, jarring his ribs against the hard edge of his desk brutally and snatching up his crucifix.  
"I have loved you well!" He hissed into the face of Jesus, "I have glorified you and praised you! I gave you everything! Ad majoram dei gloriam!" He began weeping harshly with racking sobs that made his bruised and bleeding ribs burn and pressed his lips frantically to the cross. "Show me what I must do, Lord, make of me your rod and your scourge- let me be your servant in all things and I will bring the souls of the world to you cleansed! Only command me Lord, command me," he swallowed back tears and cringed, "command me!"  
  
The room was plunged into darkness as the last candle went out, and was filled with a low, heart-wracking moan that tore the air and rent the senses. The Highblood felt his throat rattle and his lungs give out yet he knew that the moan did not come from him. The Lord spoke through him, it was the voice of an angel sent down to speak through him. He pressed his face against the stone floor and prostrated himself, consumed with ecstasy. Rebirth would be his, the holy and the almighty would make of him a vessel and he would know the grace of the Lord.  
"Sublime," he whispered, "sublime!"


End file.
